


Road Work Ahead

by finley_blue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crying, Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx Mixtape, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Grieving Dean Winchester, Grieving Sam Winchester, Hugs, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, eventually, smidgen of cas/dean if you see it like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2018-12-25 23:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12047034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finley_blue/pseuds/finley_blue
Summary: "NO!"His breath comes in harsh bursts, loud exhales and inhales as he breathes in, breathes out. But why? Why is he allowed to continue breathing? Chin digging into his chest as he shuts his eyes, Dean stops.Stops breathing, for a moment, as if forfeiting his oxygen supply could give life back to Cas. He waits a moment. Inhales again."Dammit Cas."____________In the wake of disaster, how do Sam and Dean cope?(my response to the season 12 finale)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do Sam and Dean deal in the aftermath?  
> (this is gonna be fun)
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own supernatural (unfortunately)  
> spoilers for season 12  
> unbetaed

_"NO!"_

It echoes around his head, his immediate, absolute denial. Rings in his ears, persistent.

The world is silent except for the crickets chirping away, unaware, and Sam’s fading footsteps heavy against the gravel. His breath comes in harsh bursts, loud exhales and inhales as he breathes in, breathes out.

But why? Why is he allowed to continue breathing? Chin digging into his chest as he shuts his eyes, Dean stops.

Stops breathing, for a moment, as if forfeiting his oxygen supply could give life back to Cas. He waits a moment. Inhales again.

Everything is so perfectly clear, too clear. The clarity is blinding, every detail horrifyingly acute. Dean traces the line of Cas’s jaw with shaking fingers, the stubble grating against his light touch. There’s no blood, no mess spilled out on the ground to signify the disaster, only a pile of folded limbs and a crumpled trenchcoat spread out beneath… beneath the body.

The night air is cold and biting, but Dean can hardly feel it. He’s buzzing, a numb roar in his ears now. He can see himself shaking, his muscles tightening under his skin. Dean clenches his hand around the trenchcoat, wrinkles rippling through the fabric, but its owner doesn’t respond.

“Dammit Cas,” Dean says quietly, but he can’t even get through a simple statement like that without his voice cracking, a hoarse, wet croak escaping his lips. His face scrunches up, eyebrows drawn together and mouth pinched as a sheen of moisture wettens his eyes.

He stays there for who knows how long, and even though his knees protest, he doesn’t break the stillness. He just lets his eyes wander, lets his fingers smooth down the lapel of Cas’s trenchcoat. The repetition is oddly soothing.

Once, his eyes fall on Cas’s wings, their charcoal imprints stained onto the ground. Dean remembers the first time he saw those wings, in an old barn, huge arcing shadows of light making the lights flicker and spark. _I am an angel of the Lord._

“An angel, sure, but an also a dumbass,” Dean says, gravelly voice wavering as he raises his glistening eyes skyward. “That wasn’t—We were going to—You weren’t supposed to—” His voice breaks, the words catching in his throat.

Dean exhales, warm and heavy, a sluggish feeling of failure lodged in his throat. There’s an inexplicable resentment there, a certain kind of bitter disappointment at himself for letting this to happen. He waits stationary, the sky lightening as dawn approaches.

“—Hey.”

“Dean.”

Sam’s long fingers linger on his sleeve, hesitant. They’re cold and trembling slightly, and Dean can sense Sam’s unsure presence in the space next to him.

“Sam, I—I just _can’t_ right now, okay?” Dean grinds the words out against the lump in his throat. He hears Sam swallow, hears him shift, and the light pressure of his fingers disappears from Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s surprised at how much he misses that simple touch.

“Okay,” Sam says quietly, his voice cracking and popping just like Dean’s. “We have to move soon though.” _We have to move him soon._

Dean turns his head to look at Sam, ignoring the crick in his neck. “Gimme a goddamn minute here, Sam.” And even though his voice is low and relatively controlled, there’s an undercurrent of anger because it’s not just some body they have to take care of, it’s _Cas_.

Sam nods jerkily, his hair falling across his eyes and mutters something unintelligible as he stabs his thumb at the house and retreats.

Dean bows his head, his form hunched over his best friend—more than that, really—and breaks the early morning stillness. Everything is bathed in yellow and orange light, the warm tones softening the scene. Cas is beautiful, his dark hair sprinkled with dew, the planes of his face alight with sunshine, but the whole thing is just so _wrong._ Cas should be sitting next to him, awkwardly raising a glass to their success, and drinking until they collapse, giddy with victory, not here, sprawled on the ground, black wings smudged into the grass. The peaceful carnage makes Dean sick.

“Why?” Dean whispers, and suddenly his words are gasps, stolen bits of breath. “I was just—” _Just._

And then he’s crying, dammit. He’s already cried this week, but he can’t help the silent tears that leak out from his eyes. They’re warm and wet, spilling over his dry, cracked skin, and this whole thing is just so messy. His shoulders shake, racking his body, and he has to wipe away his tears, has to pull himself together and be strong for Sam, for Cas. God, Cas.

_“NO!”_

_Just._

Dean stops.

____________

 ~~~~

Dean’s stopped functioning.

Sam realizes this as soon as he carried Kelly’s body outside to burn and saw his brother, red-eyed and with tear tracks down his face, sitting over Cas. Cas’s… body.

He had brought a despondent Dean over to the Impala. Dean sat in the back, Cas’s head across his lap as Sam drove through for hours upon upon through countrysides and cities, navigating traffic and the haze of the heat. They crashed at the bunker when they got there that night, and brought Cas to his room. But Sam didn’t sleep—couldn’t—not with his dead best friend lying in the room next to him.

Dean didn’t either, as Sam saw when he rose from his bed at six in the morning and finds his brother up, with a bottle to his lips and a lazy “Heya, Sammy.” He’s got shadows under his red-rimmed eyes and Sam thinks he has a right to be worried as he plucks the bottle from Dean’s hand.

“Dude! Gimme back my beer.”

“I think you’ve had enough, Dean,” Sam replies, noting the many bottles and shards of glass littering the bunker’s floor.

“Nah. It helps, with the pain,” Dean’s slurring now, his chair tipping dangerously. Sam steadies him.

“Is this really what Cas would’ve wanted?” Sam says quietly, and Dean wasn’t meant to hear, but he does, his face sobering as he rounds on Sam.

“Maybe, maybe not. Is what Mom would’ve wanted? Is it what _you_ want? Cause I’m having a hard time figuring that out.”

“Dean,” Sam tries, but Dean’s worked up, limbs shaky and head fuzzy from alcohol and grief.

“Do you even feel _anything_ , Sam?”

Sam steps back. He knows it’s the beer talking, and that Dean is just wrapped up in his own grief, but it stings. It makes him feel like that soulless monster he was not so long ago, makes him wonder if he should be grieving, unravelling the same way Dean is.

“Let’s just get you to a bed,” Sam sighs. He grabs Dean’s arm, never mind that Dean is trying to shrug him off, and manhandles him down the hallway and into a bed. Grabs a glass of water. Some aspirin. Turns the lights off.

“I’ll be in the library if you need anything,” he tells the dark room, and gets a grunt in response.

Sam goes up to the library and starts to sweep up the glass. It’s painstaking, trying to find every last piece, and his hands get cut up in the process, but it’s worth it. In the morning, when Dean will undoubtedly come looking for more beer, he won’t cut himself on an invisible shard. They don’t need any more scars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! this is my first fic and i'd love to know what you thought- drop me a comment?  
> more to come- i'm excited for this piece


	2. Chapter 2

“Dude! Where’s all the food? And the beer!”

“We didn’t have a whole lot to begin with, Dean.” Sam’s voice is groggy with sleep as he mounts the stairs. “I think we need to restock.”

“On it,” Dean grabs the keys from the counter and shoves them in his pocket. “You want anything?”

“You’re going out?” Sam sounds suspicious and slightly concerned and Dean stops to look at his brother.

“Yeah. Come on man, I need to do something.” Sam looks at his toes, weary, and Dean wonders what exactly transpired yesterday. He remembers Sam, taking his beer and leading him down the hall, and then later a palm on his back as he puked his guts out, not for the first time, and a trailing hand spreading a blanket over him. “So,” Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam, “you want anything?”

“Salad?” Sam says. “And peanut butter and jelly,” He adds more wistfully.

Dean nods, biting back a comment about his little brother’s weird-ass eating habits, and turns towards the garage.

Only when he reaches the car does he realize that PB&J is— _was_ —Cas’s favorite food.

____________

 

Sam’s pacing.

Unlike Dean, who tends to still in his grief, Sam has to keep moving. If he thinks too long about something, it’ll break him. So he just picks up the pieces of others in their grief and tries to focus on something else.

Unfortunately, his feet have taken him to Cas’s door.

He stares at it in all of its uniform, polished, wooden glory, trying not to think of what lay inside. _Cas, his black wings chalked in forebodingly, laying motionless on the ground…_ And then suddenly, without having consciously made a decision, he’s pushing the door open, face twitching slightly at the creak, and walking into the room.

It’s dark.

Sam reaches for the light switch, but doesn’t turn it on. Somehow this quiet space feels intimate, like illuminating it would be inappropriate. And he’s not quite sure he’s ready to see the angel yet either. Not fully. It would just make everything so much more _real_. So Sam just lets the door swing open a little more so that dim light plays across the room, not quite chasing the shadows from the corners. The soft sound of his footsteps follows him as he walks over to the bed.

“Hey, Cas.” His voice is loud in the silence, and Sam inwardly flinches. “I’m just— I wanted to apologize. To you.”

 _This place is sacred_ , Sam thinks as he lets his awkward words fill the room. Cas _is sacred_.

“We—I—didn’t try hard enough to keep you safe, and I know you’ve lost a lot because of us, me especially… and I’m sorry.” _I’m so sorry._ Sam thinks of the Cas’s blood, stark against his white shirt as he lay in that old barn, and swallows. “ I know we’re not buddy buddy all the time, and that we disagree on stuff, and—” Sam’s halting flow of words stop as his chest gets uncomfortably tight. He blinks a couple times, and clears his throat, a wet laugh coming up.

“Thank you, Cas.” Sam says quietly into the silence. “Just, for always being there.” He ducks his head, hiding the shine in his eyes, his next words almost indiscernible.

“Thanks for being my best friend.”

Sam turns his head, ever so slightly, but enough to catch a glimpse of a tan trenchcoat folded at the edge of the bed, black shoes next to it. His eyes wander aimlessly, and suddenly he’s looking at Cas.

The angel’s face is still and lined, the sharp angle of his chin digging into the pillow, creasing the fabric. Without his trenchcoat, Cas looks small, his frame strangely fragile. Sam lets a small breath escape.

“God, Cas.” His breath crackles, control wavering. _Cas… Cas… Cas…_ The angel’s nickname bounces around his mind. He touches the Cas’s hand, and it’s cold, so cold, but Sam keeps the contact, willing warmth into his hand. He doesn’t want to accept the inevitable, not yet.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” It’s a mantra he repeats in his head, the slow murmur of those familiar syllables bringing a small amount of comfort. He squeezes Cas’s hand, looking at his best friend lying still on the immaculate covers, hair mussed and body relaxed as if in sleep. Sam nods reassuringly, not sure who he’s trying to soothe.

“Here,” He says, nodding even as his eyes mist. _I’m here. You’re here._ “Here.”

____________

 

_“Hailstones are coming down the size of soccer balls, if you can believe it folks. California is experiencing some crazy weather. A freak storm has moved in out of nowhere…”_

“—That’ll be $33.40, sir.”

“What? Yeah, right.” Dean tears his attention away from the grainy TV and looks at the lady behind the counter, slapping down two twenties.

“Weird weather, huh?” Saleslady— _Kimberly_ , Dean reads from her nametag—addresses Dean. He nods noncommittally, waiting for her to finish bagging up his things.

“You okay, hon? Sorry to intrude, but you look a mite bit down.” Dean looks up at Kimberly and her watery blue eyes framed by explosive white curls.

“I’m fine,” Dean says tightly. What business was it of hers anyway? He just wanted to get back to Sam and Cas, kick back, and have a beer.

 _“…massive wildfire in Southern California… spreading down to Nevada… firefighters attempting to control it… possible evacuation”_ Dean frowns at the television, brow darkening. Huge natural disasters? Freaky weather? Sounded like their kind of thing.

“Here you are,” Kimberly pushes a paper bag across the counter, and Dean turns away from his thoughts.

“Thanks,” He says briefly, tossing her a grim smile, grabbing the bag and striding out towards his baby. He checks the contents of the bag; beer, eggs, soup, Sam’s salad, PB&J, bananas… and a candy bar?

He pulls the offending item out, his suspicions confirmed when the elderly clerk looks away quickly at his innocent glance. Dean turns his attention back to the candy bar. It’s chocolate. Peeling back the wrapper, he takes a hesitant bite. It’s _sweet_ , almost too sweet after days of salty tears, grit, and blood.

He eats it. All of it.

Slamming the car door shut with a satisfying thunk, Dean cranks up the radio. He’s got the groceries next to him in the passenger side, the sun in his eyes, music in his ears, and an open road in front of him.

It’s bittersweet, his life. Sweet then sour then rancid. Dean smiles dangerously, a little unhinged, and guns the engine. There’s too much hurt. Too much pain.

Too much to pretend anything’s even close to alright.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little on the short side, but there we are. the next couple of chapters are undergoing revision right now.  
> (if you have a second, leave a comment or kudos? :) they really make my day)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (do i rate for language? nah. nothing that you don't hear on the show)  
> enjoy :)

 

“Dude, seriously? Beer now? It’s like, two.”

“And?”

“Dean,” Sam sighs, his forehead crinkling.

“I’m fine, man—I don’t need any of those weird leafy milkshakes you’re crazy about.” Dean wiggles his eyebrows at his brother and takes another long sip.

“I’m not—It’s a kale smoothie.” Sam’s mouth tightens in irritation. “Dean—”

“You seen the news lately?” Dean drains the last of his beer and burps, plunking the empty bottle down on the table. He looks at his brother, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“What? No. Why? Something wrong?”

“Nah, just some weird weather on the West Coast.”

“Our kind of weird?” Dean can practically hear the gears turning in Sam’s head.

“Sounds like it. Any guesses as to what’s doing it?”

“Hang on…” Sam slides easily into a chair and opens the computer. Fingers flying, he replies slowly, “Yeah, huge wildfires that started from nowhere… hailstones popping up in the desert…”

“What’dya think it is? Because it sounds to me like it’s something powerful.” Dean asks, expectant. He fiddles with the tabletop, dragging his nails against the grain. “Something like a Nephilim.”

Sam’s fingers stop clacking against the keys and he looks up at Dean, wide-eyed. Chews his lip, blinks, and shifts in his seat before facing his brother. Dean stares back at him levelly. Over the last few days, desperately trying not to think about Mom and Cas and all the other dumb shit that had happened, Dean had tried to focus on something else— _anything_ else—and his thoughts had wandered, mundanely, to the weather. Dean was contemplating the source of the strange phenomenon when it occurred to him to consider the prospect of Lucifer’s child. What had happened inside the house? And where was Jack now?

“Sam…”

“I don’t know where he is, okay?” Sam bursts out.

“Well, what happened then? Go ahead, I’m ready for storytime.” Dean shoots back sarcastically. He knows he’s baiting his brother, but he doesn’t care. He needs to know what happened, even though this is the last thing he wants to deal with right now.

Sam takes a breath in through his nose, closing his eyes momentarily in what Dean knows is an effort to calm himself. “I saw Jack,” he says in a clipped tone. “He’s not a kid. Teenager, at least, more likely a young adult.”

Dean picks at his chin, scrubbing forcefully away at the skin with a grimy finger. Sam continues. “I went into the house after… you know, and followed his footsteps. They were burning.” Sam’s voice is suddenly hushed, and Dean looks up to find his brother staring at his lap. “And his eyes were glowing. Yellow red, just like…” Sam stops, but Dean knows what he means. _Just like Lucifer’s._

“Yellow red is orange,” he adds unhelpfully, earning him a sharp look from Sam.

“Anyways, I tried to talk to him, but he didn’t respond. I gave him Kelly’s video message too, which he seemed to like. He was pretty wary, kinda menacing. Then I went out to get him some clothes, and when I got back he was gone. Took the flashdrive and hightailed it out of there.”

“Great,” Dean muttered. “Now there’s a walking bomb on the loose. Just _great_.” There was a silence as they both sank into the despair of the situation.

“Why didn’t you try and go after him?” Dean asks steadily, trying to control his anger, after the quiet stretches on for a good while.

“I just—You and—I wasn’t ready. And I wasn’t just about to leave you.” Sam seems to be struggling to articulate, gesticulating in the air as if that would help Dean understand.

“Screw me, Sam. Now we’ve got a Nephilim on the run and no way to get it back.” There’s a crease between Dean’s eyebrows and his lips are turned down, mouth lined. His eyes are hard, daggers on Sam’s face, and dammit, why can’t they ever catch a break?

“You think I don’t know that?” Sam’s cracking now, Dean can hear it in his voice. “We’ve got enough to deal with already. We can’t do it all, Dean.” _We can’t save everyone._

“Oh _no._ You do not get to give up. Not on this.” Dean’s eyes are deep, intense. They are _not_ giving up on Cas. He clenches his fist, nails digging into his palm, keeping Sam’s gaze. “We are going to find that kid. Or teenager—whatever—and we are going to make this right. You got it?”

“Yeah,” Sam starts, his voice soft and jagged, head bent over towards the floor, “ _how_?”

“We’ll fix it, Sam. We’ll find a way. We always do.” He’s firm in his answer, but inside he’s asking the same question. Always the same question, the same hopeless plea for escape from this bitter place.

“‘ _We’_ used to include Cas,” Sam murmurs, so quietly that Dean is sure he wasn’t meant to hear. But in the silence that follows, he thinks of the self proclaimed “Team Free Will” and all the battles he faced with the angel, all the times Cas simply stopped by and ate dinner with them, or sat in the car as they drove. _I know_ , he thinks, _I know_.

“I’ll make us some lunch,” Sam says abruptly, getting up and pushing the chair out with a screech, and Dean nods mutely, because what else can he do?

 

___________

 

Sam bites his lip, hard, in the kitchen as he spreads cream cheese on a bagel for him and Dean. They both offer up the same platitudes, dulled and without drive. How are they going to come back from this loss? It’s like the world is testing how many times it can beat down the Winchesters without them giving up.

Sam doesn’t know, but this one is hitting pretty hard.

He finishes with the cream cheese, grabs two apples, and heads back up. Dean hasn’t moved from when Sam left—is just twirling the beer bottle around his fingers. Sam swipes it and places a bagel in Dean’s hand instead. “Here.”

And after a moment, grudgingly, “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry—” Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off gruffly.

“It’s fine Sam, just—tell me next time, okay?” Sam nods, hating the silence as Dean crunches into his apple. It’s _not_ fine, _nothing’s_ fine, and they both know it. He just wants to be able to talk to his brother about all the things that are happening in their shitty life, but Dean’s making that hard right now.

Sam decides to try anyway. “What’s the plan?”

“For what?” Dean snorts deprecatingly. “Living? Let’s see, food? Check. Water? Check.”

“Are you done?” Sam asks tiredly.

“Nope. Breathing? Hopefully. Not having a hole in my chest? I wish.”

“—Dean,” Sam stops him. “I was talking about… Cas.”

“What about him?”

“What are we going to do? With—with his body.” Sam swallows, the tender subject hovering uncertainly between them.

Dean looks up at that, shadowed eyes locked on his brother. “It’s been a _week_ , Sam.”

“Yeah. And nothing’s happened.” Sam pauses to look at Dean, trying to gauge his reaction. “So unless you’ve found something, short of praying to Chuck, I think maybe—maybe it’s time we buried him.”

Silence.

Sam knows his brother won’t salt and burn Cas, and if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want to either, even if it’s the right thing—the proper thing— to do. Dean’s looking down at his lap, so Sam can’t see his eyes, but he thinks he sees the curve of a smile. _Why would Dean be smiling?_ Then his brother looks up, hard mirth in his eyes, and laughs. Sam gets a bad feeling that deepens when Dean nods, smirking.

“Wow, that’s—that’s great,” his brother says, still smiling sardonically. “I mean, _why not?_ The dude’s dead, why should we keep him around?”

That hurts Sam, pitting his stomach with guilt and loss. “I just thought—”

“No, Sam, you didn’t think. Not at all. You just want to get him out of here so _you_ don’t have to deal with it!” Dean’s voice is hard now, all sarcastic sweetness gone, anger punctuating each word.

“No, I—Dean, is this really what Cas would’ve wanted?” Sam tries.

“ _Is this what_ —Wow, that’s rich,” Dean’s lips are pressed tightly together, and he’s staring at Sam with something like disbelief and restrained ire. “Why is it that people always pay more attention to you when you’re gone?” He shakes his head, “I mean, come on Sam, do you think Cas _wanted_ to die? ‘Cause I’m pretty goddamn sure he didn’t! But it happened, and here we are.”

“We have to do _something_ —” Sam says, ignoring the shoots of pain through his chest and trying to reason with his brother.

“What, Sam? What do we _have to do_?” Dean sounds tired. “We don’t get a vote. The world doesn’t _care_ what we want. Hell, I’ve wanted plenty of things. That doesn’t mean I get them.”

“Dean,” Sam says, low through the tightness in his throat, “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. You miss him, and—”

“Damn right I miss him,” Dean interrupts brashly. “I miss him so bad my heart feels just about ready to jump out of my chest. _My_ question is: do you? Do _you_ miss him? Because it sure doesn’t look like it.”

Sam sits for a moment, studying his nails. _Do you?_ Dean’s accusation echoes in his head. “Yeah,” he says at last, softly.

“Right,” he hears Dean mutter quietly. “You’re a coward, Sam. You’re running away from your feelings, and not giving Cas the respect he deserves. At the very least, he should know that you care.”

Sam looks up sharply, his features twisted in disbelief, and raises his voice. “I’m— _I’m_ —being disrespectful? I’m not the one who’s drinking constantly, washing away all the memories because it’s too painful. I’m not the one who’s letting his body rot away—”

“Well maybe you should!” Dean yells, furious. “Maybe, for once in your life, you should show that you feel _something!_ ”

Sam glares at Dean, silently outraged, and his brother glares back, chest heaving. “I can’t do this right now,” Dean says, not taking his eyes off of Sam. “I can’t do anything.”

And he leaves.

Sam watches him go, his hands shaking with a rush of emotion. “I’m sorry,” he tells the empty room, not sure what he’s apologizing for. “I’m sorry.”

 

____________

 

The bunker suddenly feels tight and small. Dean takes a deep breath, letting the cold air rip through the heat of his anger. _Why did Sam have to be so damned good at making his point?_ He clenches his fist, bare feet stinging against the chilled ground as he strides about aimlessly. He passes Cas’s door, his eyes lingering on it in a moment of indecision before walking past it to his own room and shutting himself in.

“Dammit Cas,” Dean whispers, again, for the millionth time, wishing he could see his friend again.

He doesn’t know what does it, maybe his lack of sleep, maybe the alcohol, maybe the anger at Sam’s apparent indifference, or at Cas for _dying_ , but suddenly he’s yelling, screaming really. Random snatches of rough, gravelly words escape him, alone in his dark, empty bedroom. It’s a string of anger and pain and grief that has Dean smashing his fist into the wall, sunk into the depths of Cas’s death.

“ _WHY…_ dammit—I can’t, it’s not— _stop._ ”

His knuckles are bloody, but Dean is beyond caring as he flops back onto his bed, the springs creaking, and watches the fan spin endlessly above him. _“NO!”_ He bellows, his anger tempering the wetness in his eyes. He doesn’t want to fall asleep, doesn’t want to have to face the terrible replays of Cas’s eyes going white, his body slumping to the ground, lifeless.

_Please, no._

 

____________

 

Sam hears Dean through the walls, all of his brother’s condensed pain pouring out into anger. He knows that Dean’s hurting—understands it, better than anyone else on the planet probably—but he’s not the only one. The pain Sam feels runs deep, especially when there are barbed insults flung his way every second, every time he goes out of his way to try and help.

He curls his hand into the immaculately made bedsheets, listening to Dean murmur curses and broken dreams. _It’s not fair._ He doesn’t feel the raw emotions that Dean is experiencing, just… emptiness. Sam scrubs a hand over his face, hard, trying to scratch deep enough so that the loneliness goes away, so that he feels something else— _anything else_ — than that desperate ache. He feels like he’s starving, all his vitality siphoned off, and there’s a pit of twisted longing in his chest that takes up way too much space.

Sam shakes his head once slowly, and then moves to get under the covers. He’s got to at least try and sleep. But the blankets that used to be warm and plush and _home_ are now cold and weighted down.

Hours later, his soul aching, Sam drifts off to the sound of Dean’s congested breathing, fervently wishing for everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're going somewhere now, and there will certainly be some tears before the boys can man up and say how they feel, but we're getting there. i hope you guys are liking it—thanks so much for reading!!


	4. Chapter 4

Sam wakes up early.

Too early, he sees when he looks at the clock. Only three hours tonight.

He shrugs his jacket on and pulls on his pants, the fabric cool and wrinkly, unwashed and well-worn. The bunker is dark, but Sam can feel that it’s morning. The air is new, and the darkness is not quite absolute; natural light trickles in gradually, but he doesn’t feel refreshed by the fact, just tired. _Another day to go._

He pads down the hallway quietly, pausing at Dean’s door. His brother is snoring away inside, the covers thrown awkwardly over his tangle of limbs. His shoes are still on, and Sam feels the sudden urge to go over and pull them off, tuck Dean in, but he knows the gesture wouldn’t be appreciated. Sam sighs, gives his brother one last look, and continues upstairs, leaving a hastily scrawled _“back soon”_ on a note resting on Dean’s drawers.

He walks into town, wet gravel crunching under his boots. The air is still chilled, only the hint of pink at the horizon signifying the coming sunrise. The sky is wide open, and while Sam’s seen plenty of skies in his life—one of the perks of always being on the road—this one is different.

Maybe it’s because the three of them had never watched a sunset from the bunker, the only thing that came close to being home. They’d never enjoyed that peaceful rebirth of the sun together, when the world was soft and slow with wakefulness. Sam sees it now, the clouds spread out like wings, barely dipped in color, and the shadows of the trees rising into the sky. It’s haunting, this image of stillness, and yet so captivating in its beauty. This is special, it’s fragile, this young day; full and brimming with life. _You can’t preserve life,_  Sam knows, but yet it never seems to sink in. Every time he sees another home ruined, town desecrated, friend— _family_ —dead, it stings with the same bite that hollows out his chest when he wakes, sweaty and shaking, from his violent dreams. Sam shakes his head and keeps walking towards town, his footsteps out of place in the natural grace of the morning.

“Mr. Basil Whiting” rents a car at five in the morning from the sleepy little rental company, which gets Sam some odd looks, but he shrugs it off, hopping into the dull brown sedan and heading off. He’ll be there in a couple hours, less if he breaks the speed limit.

He practically tumbles out of the car when he gets there, his aching legs protesting against the movement, but Sam stretches anyway, knowing that the ride home will be a lot easier on what Dean calls his “freaky giraffe legs.” As he gets his bearings, he tries not to look at anything, but it’s hard, everything still all too fresh in his memory.

He doesn’t look at Cas’s wingprints still smeared on the ground, or the place where he burned and buried Kelly. He doesn’t look at the rickety old house or the lake behind it. He doesn’t look at where he knows the tear in space and time used to be, where Lucifer and his mom are still trapped behind. He just moves to Cas’s Ford, the old truck unmoved from when he last saw it.

It’s unlocked, Sam finds when he tugs on the driver’s door. It creaks open easily, and Sam slides in, instantly overcome with a sense of comfort. It’s nice in here, warm and used with scratches on the dash and faded leather seats. This is _Cas’s_ car, one of the few things he owned. Sam’s eyelashes flutter shut for a moment as he fights to control his breathing, tasting bittersweet.

Turning the key, he hears the familiar rumble of an engine, and carefully backs out and onto the road, making something fall on the passenger side and clatter against the door. Normally, Sam wouldn’t give a second thought to the unfortunate item, but this isn’t the Impala, with all their random stuff strewn about. Sam stops and reaches over to pick up… _DEAN’S TOP 13 ZEPP TRAXX?_ He studies it a moment, mouth crooked in a sad half smile, before sliding it in. It’s a long drive back; he could use some music.

But the smile fades even as he hears the familiar riffs of _Ramble On_ , his lips moving soundlessly—blandly—to the lyrics that shaped his childhood.

_“The time has come to be gone… And though our health we drank a thousand times…”_

_It's time to ramble on._

Sam doesn’t know if he can this time.

____________

 

It’s dark when Dean opens his eyes.

 _Always dark_ , he thinks, _always blindingly dark_.

He flips on the light switch, blinking blearily at the bulb and wincing as he flexes his fingers, dried blood flaking off. Dean groans as he rouses fully and stumbles out of bed, not bothering with fresh clothes.

He peers owlishly at himself in the grungy bathroom that he hasn’t cared to maintain and washes his hands, watching the water take away the red stains. Grime still lingers in the lines of his palm, but Dean figures that comes with the job. He rakes a hand through his hair, making it look what is at least halfway presentable, but then decides it doesn’t matter anyway. _Does it ever matter?_

It’s late morning, as Dean concludes by the meager sunlight trickling in, and Sam should be up, making breakfast and pretending everything’s fine, but he doesn’t hear the bustle of movement above. Dean quickly squashes the seed of concern that gnaws at him in deference to his brother’s harsh words the night before. If Sam wants some alone time, fine. And if Dean is behaving like a petulant child, well—that’s not important right now.

The car. Dean can work on the car—that always gets his mind off things and puts everything back into perspective. He makes his way up the stairs, rubbing sleep off his face as he goes.

But his senses are on high alert when he hears the rumble of a car pulling into their garage. It’s not his baby—he knows the sound of her engine better than the back of his hand—but it’s not completely unfamiliar, and so Dean proceeds with caution as he creeps up to the garage.

Nudging the door open with his foot soundlessly, he hears Sam’s voice, which is surprisingly unsurprising. Sam talking. Sam _praying._

 _“…hope this is better. This old thing always belonged here anyway… don’t blame you, Cas, for taking off the last couple of months, we just—we worried. Wanted you to be safe… Dean took it hard—he’s not doing so well right now. Neither of us are, really.”_ Sam voice is practically a whisper now, and Dean has to strain to hear. He catches a few more words; _“here”_ and _“okay”_ and _“miss you”_ among them before the engine shuts off and a door squeaks open, Sam’s feet descending on the ground.

At that, Dean whips around, something sinking in his stomach. What was he doing? How could he have missed that his little brother, one of the only constants in his life, was suffering—just as badly as Dean, even if he didn’t show it. Dean swallowed, his throat dry and rough. Sam had gone out and gotten Cas’s truck, retrieved one of the only true things that belonged to him and _God_ , Dean was stupid. Worst brother, worst son, worst friend—he couldn’t do anything right.

Dean pushes the door open gently. “Hey Sammy, that you?”

“Yeah,” Sam sounds uneven, caught off guard. “You get my note?”

“What? No—nevermind. Did you bring breakfast?” Sam’s at the top of steps now, scrutinizing Dean, and holds up a paper bag in answer.

Dean nods, flashing his brother a bright smile that he hopes Sam won’t see right through, and turns to walk back towards the library. “Better be some bacon in there.”

“Are you okay?” Sam’s voice behind him sounds uncertain, hesitant, as though he’s already expecting his question to backfire, and Dean chews on the inside of his lip, unsure how respond. _Was he ever okay? Maybe once, but now…_

“I’m fine,” he says eventually.

Sam’s footsteps stop behind him. “Are _we_ okay?” his brother asks, all doe-eyed with uncertain hopefulness. Dean stops too, knowing that’s it’s an apology and outstretched hand and shoulder to lean on all at the same time.

“We’re good, Sammy,” he says quietly and feels a sense of warmth at Sam’s relieved exhale. “Now, how about some breakfast, huh? Gotta get some food in ya before we hit the road.”

“What?” The paper bag crinkles behind him as Sam lays out the food and sits down.

“Freaky weather? Nephilim? Ring any bells?” Dean pulls out a frozen waffle and crunches on it, ignoring Sam’s grimace. “Good,” he mumbles contentedly through a mouthful of waffle.

“We’re going to California?” Sam asks, looking up from behind that accursed hair.

And _damn_ , of course it’s Cali—land of bad memories for Sam—but, “Gotta start somewhere.” That's where the action is, anyway. Sam nods, absently picking at a weird yogurt fruit granola thing that Dean wrinkles his nose at. A comfortable silence ensues as they eat.

“Want to catch a movie later?”

Dean licks his lips, catching the last waffle crumbs and looks intently at Sam, a smile tugging at his mouth. “What, that one with the Elsa chick?”

“No, man, Harry Potter.”

Dean scrunches up his face. But his big geeky brother is looking at him with those stupid puppy dog eyes and Dean relents. “Which one’s the best one?”

“You always liked the third one. Prisoner of Azkaban.” Sam says immediately. “I remember when I was in fourth grade, we watched that bit where Hermione punched Malfoy like ten times.”

“Oh yeah, Hermione,” Dean sighed wistfully. “She was badass. Owleye—Ravenbeak gal—whatever, like you, right?”

“No, Dean she was Gryffindor. Your house.” Sam waits a moment. “And it’s Ravenclaw.”

“Nerd,” Dean retorts.

“Killjoy.”

“Bitch.” There’s a pregnant pause, and then—

“Jerk,” Sam smiles. It’s a small smile, but Dean still counts it as a victory.

____________

 

“Dean, can you toss me my shirt?”

“Dean?”

Sam stands up and glances over at his brother, who’s standing still, with said shirt in his hand, and staring at nothing. Intently. Sam walks over, brow creased, and snaps his fingers in front of Dean’s face. After kicking back to see the Prisoner of Azkaban, they’re gearing up to hit the road, trying to get a few hours in before dark.

“Hey. Earth to Dean.” Dean starts, looking around at Sam.

“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, and turns away to start packing again. A minute later, he throws Sam his shirt with a gruff “here.” Sam folds the shirt carefully and then looks over at Dean warily. He takes a short breath in, but before he can even speak his brother cuts him off.

“I’m fine, Sam.”

“I know,” Sam replies, too quickly. He thinks about saying more, but decides not to push his luck today. They finish packing in silence.

Hefting his bag, Sam’s eyes dart over to Dean. “Should we…?” He leaves the question hanging in the air, because he can read the uncertainty on Dean’s face as clearly and sharply as he feels his own. They aren’t ready yet, not ready to move on… from, God, _everything_ , but they have to—they’re forced to—by their responsibilities to each other and the rest of humanity. Dean’s eyes come up to meet Sam’s and he nods his head at the door. Sam goes silently, feeling more than seeing Dean follow.

As they throw their bags in the trunk, Sam feels as urge to say something, to ease the tension and the uneasy balance between them. But Dean simply closes the trunk and walks around the driver’s side, his face shuttered, leaving Sam to follow mutely.

“We missing anything?” Dean asks, rough and low, when Sam gets in the car. Sam leans back, thinking about everything they’re missed in their life; all the friends and schools they’ve left behind, the childhood they never had, the innocence they lost too early, the laughter that’s few and far between—and even then, not always genuine. But he knows what Dean means—what he’s asking for. And even though Sam was the one who suggested the course of action earlier, Dean’s quiet capitulation to it stings—another blow on his already aching heart.

“Do you want me to—?” Sam asks softly.

“No, I’ll do it,” his brother replies quickly, his voice gravelly now. “I’ll get him.”

Sam nods, and waits silently in the car as Dean swings out and strides back into the bunker. Dean’s trying not to run, Sam can tell, and he doesn’t blame him—he can feel the same need and earnestness thrumming through his own body. After the door closes behind Dean, Sam unconsciously pats his pocket, reassured by the bulk of the tape inside, and sinks into the familiar seat that has practically molded to his body at this point. He closes his eyes, wishing for blackness and nothingness, an escape from his thoughts.

Sam opens his eyes to Dean coming through the door, careful not to hurt who he’s holding. Instead of a fireman’s carry, the practical option, Dean has Cas cradled to him bridal style, his head lolling on Dean’s shoulder. He treats Cas as if made of glass, but Sam can see the fierce grip he has on Cas’s shoulder and under his legs, the fabric there bunched tightly. Sam swallows, and climbs out of the car, the noise of the door barely a dent against the din of _wrong_ in his head.

Dean’s eyes are red and slightly watery, and his voice is pained when he speaks to Sam. “Can you—his coat…” Sam nods, pushing back the moisture in his own eyes. As he moves to the garage door, he has to try _really hard_ not to look back to make sure they’re okay.

Lights in his eyes and squares under his feet, Sam makes his way to Cas’s bedroom. The door is still open from when Dean carried him out, and _God_ they should never have to do that. They should never have to bury family.

Sam grabs the trenchcoat, well worn but perfect still, and can’t resist pressing his nose to it, trying to hold on to one last piece of the angel. The fabric comes away wet from Sam’s face when he detects only dirt and dust, he wipes the tears away angrily, turning to head back to the car.

Dean’s staring at the backseat when he gets there. Sam joins him and passes over the trenchcoat. Dean simply looks down at it, swallows, and lays it gently over Cas like a blanket. Standing back, they both gaze at their friend through blurry eyes.

“Where?” Dean asks, voice thick and gritty.

“I was thinking Pontiac. Illinois. Where you met him.”

“Yeah,” Dean’s looking at the ground now, and Sam pretends not to see his chin wobble. “That’s good.”

“It’s _right_.” Sam says, turning to looking at his brother.

“It’s hard,” Dean replies quietly, and Sam is taken aback for a moment. His brother doesn’t usually admit any sort of weakness, any sort of suffering.

“I know.” His voice cracks in his answer, and he meets Dean’s eyes. “I know, Dean.”

____________

 

“We should get a time-turner.”

Sam furrows his eyebrows in confusion, and Dean slides his eyes over to catch his brother’s confused and slightly concerned expression before returning his gaze to the road. They’re halfway through Missouri and it’s gotten pretty dark now. “What?”

“You know, what Hermione used to go back and change the past, with the little hourglass and all—Come on, we _just_ saw the movie.” Sam holds up his hand to cut Dean off.

“No, I know what it is, but, _why?_ ”

 _Because if we could use it to go back and save Cas’s life. And Mom’s. And ice the Devil for good. Fix all the other crap we’ve done._ “I dunno. It just seems useful,” He says instead.

Sam’s quiet, staring out the window at the rearview mirror. _Too quiet_ , Dean thinks, and hopes his brother doesn’t guess what he’s thinking. He doesn’t want another emo-chick scene, doesn’t want to talk about this. Even if they’re entitled to their grief right now, Dean doesn’t want to think about it—doesn’t want to feel it in his bones, that sharp ache stinging with every breath.

Thankfully, Sam stays silent except for, “Sorry to burst your bubble man, but the only time-turner we’d be getting would be a souvenir.” Dean huffs in a poor attempt at humor and nods, pursing his lips and renewing his focus on the road with more intensity than is probably necessary. They both fall silent, watching the stars go by.

An hour later, Sam speaks up. “Can I put some music in?”

Dean shoots his brother a look. “Is it real music?”

Sam’s eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “It’s yours,” he offers, and Dean looks at him expectantly, eyebrows raised and interest piqued. Sam pulls out a tape from his pocket, and when he shows it to him, a sharp breath is drawn from Dean’s lips. Even though the Sharpie on the scratched tape is fading, Dean knows what it says. _DEAN’S TOP 13 ZEPP TRAXX._

“How?” He asks simply through a whirlwind of emotions, looking down at his feet so he doesn’t glance at the backseat. He knows if he does he’ll tear up, because it’s _Cas._

“You mean a lot to him,” Sam replies, and the gravity of his comment hits Dean hard. Socks him, right in the chest, and he can’t do anything but offer up a grim twitch of his lips in response as his heart constricts painfully.

“Turn it up, will ya Sammy?” he asks, and _damn_ , he almost managed to make it through that without his voice breaking. Sam complies, and they both settle back into the familiar vinyl, listening to the music pouring out of the speakers. It almost feels like home.

…

It’s a couple hours later when Dean pulls over, hitting Sam on the shoulder to wake him. Sam groans and blinks blearily at Dean. “We’ll stop at the next town, ‘kay?” Dean promises, and climbs out of the car, determinedly not glancing at the backseat. Dean opens the trunk and grabs two beers, and then makes his way around to the front and leans back, handing Sam a bottle. They both crack them open and take a long drink, gazing up at the heavens.

“Y’alright?” Sam’s voice, studded with sleep, has got a bit of a twang to it.

“Peachy,” Dean responds, voice raspy. The alcohol is cool and refreshing and gives him a strange sense of lucidity.

“You know,” Sam starts carefully, looking over at Dean, and suddenly Dean cuts him off, overcome with frustration at the cautious—and frankly infuriating—treading around the grief and the pain.

“Sam, I know, okay? I _know._ I know how much it hurts. And I know you’re worried. And that you’re hurting too.” It’s just spilling out of him, everything he can’t put into words out there in a big messy jumble, but he can’t stop. Not now. He needs to face it, needs to fix it. “I’ve been an absolute dick lately, and I’m sorry. _God_ , I’m sorry.”

“Dean,” his brother says, soft and low, forgiveness and earnestness and comfort all packed into that one syllable. Sam’s hand is warm on his arm, and Dean’s realizes that he’s started shaking, tremors running down his back. His voice is now beginning to clog up from the ball of tears in his throat, and Dean can practically taste the waterworks. But with Sam next to him, whispering reassurances under the stars in the middle of nowhere, he finally lets himself go.

They’ve slid down to the ground, grass softly brushing their ankles, made and unmade again and again as grief washes over them. Dean’s trembling with dry racking sobs, trying for something.

He’s not crying, not really. Dean doesn’t know if he has any tears left to give, but his vision is blurry as Sam stops whispering in his ear and wraps a long arm around him. Then, all he knows is the warmth of Sam’s body curved against his, with the sky shaking around them as Dean breaks. It’s not a messy break like in the first hours after Cas’s death, but a slower one that twists and turns, cutting deep and hollowing him out. It’s everything he’s ever felt for Cas draining out into the air and the sky and the ground.

“I can’t,” Dean croaks, chest heaving, “I never got to—I don’t know if I can do this without him.” Sam doesn’t say anything, just listens, his hand scrunched hard in the collar of Dean’s jacket.

“I miss him,” Dean breathes, closing his eyes, the night wind warm on his face. But even that’s not enough to describe it. Dean feels like a piece of his soul is missing, which, is actually entirely possible, considering Cas pulled Dean from Hell. _We share a profound bond._

“Dammit,” he mutters, swallowing his despair. He rests his head on Sam’s bony shoulder, nestling into the cavity of his collarbone, and buries his face. His fingers absently pick at a hole in his jeans, and Dean feels Sam’s hand come up to cover his. Under any other circumstances, Dean would’ve shoved him off, called him a girl, and asked him what the hell he was doing, but now he just intertwines their fingers, comforted by their heavy presence, as if it’s the only thing keeping him up. It’s not romantic, not weird, just oddly pure.

Dean’s not sure if dozes off or not, but he wakes later to a thrumming comes from Sam; his brother’s humming. The vibrations are soothing. Dean feels calm and strangely empty. Hollow and free at the same time.

Sam’s head is resting on top of his, and Dean eases himself free slowly. He untangles their limbs and stares solemnly at Sam. They lock eyes for a second before Dean moves away mutely and gets in the car.

When he looks in the backseat this time, his eyes fill, but he smiles, because it’s _Cas._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a heavy chapter, and i'm not sure if everything flowed right, but i'm content enough.  
> thank you guys for reading :)
> 
> (and yes, i believe that Dean is a Gryffindor and Sam is a Ravenclaw. and that Dean secretly likes Frozen.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (more tears...)  
> enjoy

“Pontiac.” Dean announces. _His resting place_ , are the unspoken words they both hear.

Sam nods, and they look around, taking in the town. They drove all day after crashing at a motel somewhere in Missouri—Dean doesn’t remember where—and finally made it to Illinois. It’s been a long day, the sun in their eyes and the same thirteen tracks playing in their ears, but they’re finally here.

It’s evening, and neon lights glint in the windows of stores, sleepy, peeling advertisements hanging off the glass. Building rise up around them, separated by sky, and the streets are wide and relatively smooth, scrubby plants popping up around the sidewalks.

His brother clears his throat. “I think I saw a motel up ahead.”

Dean looks, nods, and pulls in. “I’ll get a room, you get—you get Cas.”

Sam’s head moves up, eyes finding his brother’s. “I’ll be careful, Dean.” Dean’s mouth tightens, but he nods and heads off to the front office. It’s not like he can fail Cas any more than he has already.

Key in hand, Dean returns to the car to find his brother holding the angel, eyes closed, taking slow, shuddering breaths. He sighs heavily, approaching slowly. “We’re in number twelve, Sammy.”

His brother nods silently, and Dean goes over to their room, fits the key in the lock, turns, and pushes it open. Sam walks inside, his stride unhindered despite of Cas’s weight,—the term _deadweight_ is sickening to Dean now—though his shoulders are hunched down, face turned towards the angel’s. Dean watches them for a moment, and then goes grab the bags.

When he returns less than a minute later, he sees Sam has Cas laid out on top of one of the two queens and is standing over him, eyes trained on the his face. When Dean gets closer, he sees the shine in Sam’s eyes, and gently leads his brother over to the other bed.

“How about you crash, man? I’ll join you in a second.”

It takes Sam a second to process that, thoughts still churning around furiously in that head of his, but—“Dean,” Sam tries to protest, “I’ll take the couch, seriously, you’ve been driving all day and…”

“And it’s not like we haven’t shared before,” Dean replies matter of factly. The last time they shared a bed was months ago, after they broke out of that government facility. After all those days of solitude they simply needed the comfort of human touch. _Cas was with us then_ , Dean remembers. _He stayed with us._ It’s a good memory, and Dean holds onto it for a moment.

He pats Sam on the shoulder, and heads off to the bathroom. He rinses his face, water dripping down his chin, and stares at his reflection, wondering how he’ll change and how their life will change—because this death is definitely a catalyst. Dean shakes his head minutely and rubs a towel over his face.

Sam’s already asleep when he gets to the bed, hair fanned out on the pillow, his face lined, yet so vulnerable and _young._ Dean settles a hand on his brother’s head, fingers carding through his hair, and feels warmth blossom in his chest when Sam makes a contented sound and turns towards his hand. Dean feels the barest whisper of a smile cross his lips before he moves over to the other bed.

In the dim light, Cas looks ethereal, as if he’s still surrounded by clinging bits of grace. Dean tenderly swipes a thumb across the angel’s cheek, tracing the bones there, and lets his eyes flutter shut. A single tear slips free, but Dean leaves it there. It’s fitting somehow. He bends over, hesitates, and then presses his lips to Cas’s forehead. It’s quick and soft and somewhere that’s not quite platonic, but not romantic either. It’s sweet and healing, and Dean breathes in Cas for a moment before pulling away.

Dean climbs in bed next to Sam, pulls the covers up, and throws an arm over his brother. “G’night,” he breathes into the air, reaching up for the light switch.

And then darkness washes over everything.

____________

 

Even after he’s been up and out of bed for hours, Sam feels like he’s sleepwalking.

It’s a strange feeling, because he can see everything clearly—too clearly, in fact, like everything is in high definition—but it doesn’t feel real. It’s like he’s a ghost watching a movie of his own life. _They’re going to bury Cas today._

He feels the pain only as a dull ache now. Sam knows it’s there, all the emotion for Cas, his mom, Bobby, Lucifer, Dean… even Crowley, but he’s suppressing it. He’s done it before, when Dean went to Hell, and again when he lost both his brother and Cas to Purgatory. Sam covers up how broken he is by shutting out everything. It feels good to… _not_ feel, but it’s strange, too. He feels like he has a responsibility to emote.

Sam pretends not to notice the bags under Dean’s eyes— _nightmares_ —as his brother hands him a coffee, and Dean doesn’t comment on his shaky, uncoordinated movements. It’s a silent drive to the forest, both of them lost for what to say.

Trees blur in his field of vision, the thrum of the engine comforting under them as they shoot forward. Sam doesn’t even care that Dean’s 20 miles over the speed limit and climbing, he just sit back and enjoys the rush of wind on his face, enjoying the recklessness for once instead of trying to control it. _There is no control anymore._

Dean pulls over once they hit the dead end, and they both sit in the car for a moment, just looking straight ahead into the shade of the trees as if they could see a road to follow. But the fact is, there is no road anymore—they have to make their own path. Dean heaves a sigh and swings his legs out of the car, the door slamming shut behind him, and Sam follows.

“How far…” Sam’s question trails off as he watches Dean scoop Cas gently into his arms, settling him comfortably, the angel’s head lolling against Dean’s shoulder, limbs secure in his brother’s grip.

“Half a mile.” Dean glances over at him. “We can switch off.”

Sam nods jerkily, because it’s the thing to do. But really, he doesn’t want to touch Cas any more than he needs to, because _God_ , it’s painful. All the hurt Sam’s trying to shut up inside comes crashing down on him when he’s touching Cas—Cas’s _body_ —because it’s a physical reminder of everything he’s lost. He just _can’t_. He can tell that Dean needs to be close to Cas to reaffirm that he’s still here and protect his memory, but it’s different for Sam. When he was holding Cas yesterday, he kept waiting for him to breathe, and he almost broke down when he felt the stillness of Cas’s body and the coldness of his skin. _Death is cruel_ , Sam thinks, and returns to the emptiness inside his head, plodding along blankly beside his brother. Dean looks sideways at him and doesn’t even ask, just carries Cas all the way.

When they get there, Sam’s breath is stolen away, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes that he quickly blinks away. This is where he _buried_ Dean. Even the cross is still there, knocked backwards into the grass. But it’s also vastly different—the whole area looks like a blast zone, trees fanned out all around the site. New growth is sprouting, covering it, but it’s still clearly visible. _Cas_ , Sam thinks in awe. He can feel the air humming, almost alive with energy. _Remnants of grace._

Snapping out of his reverie, Sam quickly looks over at Dean, who has sunk to the ground, Cas in his arms, eyes dark as he takes in the scene. Sam clears his throat quietly.

“I can—I’ll do it,” he tells Dean, hoping his voice isn’t too shaky, and Dean nods. Sam swallows, gazing at his brother crumpled on the ground around Cas. _It’s hard_ , Dean’s voice echoes in his head, and Sam nods unconsciously in agreement. Then, he straightens his shoulders, closes his eyes, opens them, and walks resolutely over to his brother’s grave.

He stares at it bitterly for a moment before moving a couple feet to the right. Sam takes a deep breath, almost feeling the dirt in his lungs, and grabs the shovel.

He could’ve said later that it was almost therapeutic, lifting up the ground and tossing in over his shoulder in a steady rhythm, but in the moment he’s just numb, his heartbeat rapid and loud in his ears. Seeing the hole begin to form shakes Sam, and his grip tightens around the handle, knuckles white. He wants to press his thumb into his palm, let the pain wake him up from this terrible dream.

It’s not long before he stops, not daring to go the whole six feet down. _Four feet_ , he thinks, _that’s good enough._ He lets the shovel drop from his hand and sinks down, looking at the hole he’s just dug. It’s dark, the earth moist, and Sam swallows. Hard.

Dean comes up behind him then, his hand on Sam’s shoulder making him jump. “Is it ready?” His brother asks, voice scratchy.

“Yeah,” Sam replies.

“You ready?” Dean asks, more quietly, and God, how is Sam supposed to answer that?

“Are you?” He says, and it’s not as much of a question as a statement. Dean inclines his head in response and his hand disappears from Sam’s shoulder, footsteps fading away. A minute later he’s back, and it’s all Sam can do to hold it together at the sight of that familiar tan trenchcoat and its owner in such close proximity to the hole in the ground.

Dean’s talking, but Sam can’t hear it. He simply sits, trying to force down the feelings stuck in his throat, looking down at the ground and letting the earth run between his fingers while Dean moves back and forth across the clearing. When he finally looks up at Dean’s fingers tapping his cheek, he sees that his brother has created a makeshift coffin—a sort of a layer of protection made from the discarded wood around them to protect Cas from the dirt.

“Sam,” Dean says quietly, just his name. He gets up, and takes Cas’s legs. Dean grabs his arms, and ever so gently they lower their friend down. Sam lets go immediately, and has to look away.

He turns back eventually, shaking with the realization that this is the last time they will ever truly _see_ Cas. Sam furiously tries to memorize the planes of his face, his eyes, his limbs, his clothes, his own features contorted with grief.

Dean’s staring too, and Sam can see his brother starting to crack when Dean looks up, face stony, and hands Sam a shovel, hefting one of his own. Sam’s fingers close around it automatically, and he stands waiting, not quite sure what to do.

He’s almost sick as he sees Dean toss a pile of dirt down. Even with the makeshift coffin, crumbs of earth still land on Cas. Sam chokes down a sob. _This is it._

After a few more shovelfuls, Dean stops and looks up at Sam. His eyes are red, and his hands are trembling, but he says nonetheless, “Come on, Sammy.” It’s a broken statement, weighed down with regret and pain, but strong in its authority. Sam nods slowly, scoops up a pile of dirt with trepidation, and closes his eyes. They’re watery behind his lids, but he doesn’t let the dam break yet. Heaving a breath, Sam empties his shovel, throws it down. He waits a moment, and then does it again. Again and again and again.

It’s only a little easier when he can’t see Cas anymore.

When the ground is finally flat again, Dean stops and chucks the shovel twenty feet away, chest heaving as he watches it go. All the gentleness that Sam knows in his brother is gone in the face of loss, only anger and destruction left. Dean turns back and picks up a cross made from two pieces of wood. He runs his hand over it, still silent, and then shoves it violently into the ground above Cas’s—Oh, _God_ —Cas’s _grave_. Sam shudders.

Sam lets the shovel drop from his own hand and crumples to the ground. He doesn’t—he _can’t_ —think about his friend lying just four feet under them, dead.

“No,” he croaks, and it’s barely more than a whisper before Dean is there, a hand around his shoulders, pulling him close, and Sam only has time for one delirious thought— _deja vu, much?_ —before he curls into his brother and lets the tears come.

They’re hot and heavy and _lots_ , and Sam just wants to disappear into nothingness what for the pain that’s eating him alive from the inside. Dean’s got a rough hand on the back of his neck, and his runny nose is pressed into his brother’s chest as Dean tries to calm his frantic shaking, the trembling that racks his body. Even with the warmth and solidness of his brother—his lifelong protector—wrapped around him, Sam can’t stop himself from breaking. He attempts to speak a couple times, but all that comes out are wet sobs, sometimes a hysterical laugh.

 _Oh, please no,_ Sam thinks, fingers curled in Dean’s plaid. All the emotions he’s felt and shoved down are coming out—bubbling up—because now Sam’s seen his pain and grief and everything he didn’t have time to deal with personified in the form of Cas’s body—and his burial. Sam closes his eyes and digs his forehead deeper into Dean’s chest, futily fighting back tears.

 _Bobby’s looking at him blankly, telling him “you say that like it’s supposed to mean something.” His surrogate father—his_ dead _surrogate father doesn’t recognize him, and the wetness is his eyes is all too familiar when he looks down to wipe away the salty liquid._

_Lucifer’s taunting him, calling him “Sammy,” and he can’t help trembling a little as he stares into those unblinking yellow red irises. The Cage is all too close in his mind, and the pain he thought he was free from comes rushing back with a new wave of fear. NO…_

_His mom’s smiling, talking to him, and now that he’s finally spending time with her, getting to know her… it’s all gone—in one precious instant. She’s stuck with Lucifer._ Your fault _, he berates himself. Their little family is broken all over again._

_And Cas, his best friend—family—the angel that stood by them through thick and thin. Gone, because he wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t fight it, and now Cas is gone. No deals can bring him back, and that’s the final straw for Sam._

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _sorry,_ ” he’s mumbling into Dean, his brother rubbing circles on his back. “I couldn’t—my fault— _please_ … don’t—I need,” he rambles, his voice a tearful mess, gritty and cracking on every other word. “Miss you—come _back._ ”

Dean holds him—holds him together—and talks. Nothing Sam can hear, but the low rumble of his brother’s voice is soothing. It’s a while before the shaking stops and Sam’s finally still, but suddenly he’s aware of the taste of dirt in his mouth, his runny nose, the crusty bits around his eyes, and the numbness in his legs. He sits up slowly, untangling himself from Dean’s desperate embrace, and looks around. Dean is a comforting sight, even if he looks just about as screwed over as Sam feels. His brother’s eyes, hazel green and intense, lock onto his, a mix of pain and concern scrawled in the lines of his face.

“I’m okay,” Sam says, soft and serious. “I’m okay now.” Dean stares at him for a moment, and then laughs bitterly, because they both know that’s only a half-truth.

But when Dean offers his hand to pull Sam up, he finds a little strength deep inside himself to carry on.

____________

 

Dean drives.

Illinois is a day and several states behind them, and they haven’t really stopped for anything more than the necessities, wanting nothing more than—by silent consensus—to leave Pontiac as far behind as they can. Dean’s pretty sure they’ve made it most of the way through Nebraska at this point.

It’s nice to be behind the wheel again though, and Dean takes pride in his baby, speeding along the highway, his headlights clearing the way through the night. It’s probably morning, actually, and they should really stop and try to grab a couple hours—God knows he and Sam need a good night’s sleep, but that’s probably not going to happen at this point.

Dean glances over at his brother, conked out against the window, and gives him a good-natured grimace. The burial was… hard—for both of them—but Sam really just _broke._ And it hurt to watch. Dean knew that Sam had been putting on a brave face, but to see all the emotion behind it just laid out in front of him… God _. Sammy._

He can still feel his brother’s rasping breaths against his collarbone, the tears soaked into his jacket, and the things he muttering still ringing in his brain. Sam’s broken murmurs about Bobby stung Dean, cutting deep because he hasn't even _thought_ about their surrogate father, and Sam’s been carrying this around all by himself. His pleading for Lucifer to stop made Dean want to punch the Devil in the face because _God,_ that bastard should not be allowed to walk, and Sam just followed with a teary apology to their mother for not saving her and not being a good son that had Dean tugging him ever closer. His brother’s last desperate whispers for Cas made Dean ache in a way that he hasn’t for a long time.

He had told Sam that it was hard, and he meant it. Cas—burying him hadn’t been a walk in the park for Dean either. He never really thought Cas would be _gone_ , and it hurts worse than Hell—Dean would know, seeing as the angel is the one who pulled him from the pit in the first place. It’s not easy to bury all those memories and emotions, and there’s still so much regret about what he hasn’t said, hasn’t done.

But even though Dean’s throat is closing up, he knows that they’re leaving it behind. It’s over, and they’ll get better. They’ll bounce back—they always do, and maybe it’ll be a little more ragged than normal, a little more unsynchronized, but they’ll still be _them._ And they’re Winchesters—hunters—and they’ve got a job to do.

Dean sidles over to the side of the road, parks, and just lets the car run, enjoying the small, familiar pleasure of the engine rumbling under him. Might as well take a break for tonight, and since Sam’s out—Dean’s doing the research.

The laptop is a nice, warm weight in his lap. Dean squints and rubs his eyes from the light, his hands flicking across the keyboard. While he’s not a technology whiz like Sam, he’s got some skills. _Comes with the job,_ Dean thinks, and is secretly glad Frank taught him how to use the device properly.

Clicking away, he scans the headlines, noting that the disasters on the West Coast have subsided. _Where was Jack…?_

Suddenly, the computer beeps—Sam’s algorithm thingy—and an article pops up: _INTENSE ELECTRICAL STORM STRIKES SIOUX FALLS._ He doesn’t think his finger has ever moved that fast as he skims over the article, eyes dark with resolve. Yep, this is it. They’ve got a Nephilim to kill.

Slamming the computer shut, he hits Sam on the shoulder. Sam groans, stretching and wincing.

“Wake up, Princess,” Dean says, teasing but pressing.

“What—Dean, it’s the middle of the night, can we just—”

“Got a lead,” he replies, shooting Sam a wicked smile. “Hey, you think Jody’s missed us?”

____________

 

Jack sits, reveling in the dry destruction around him. _This is perfect,_ he thinks, gazing at the streets of Sioux Falls. He loves lightning—it’s cold and unforgiving, fast and biting. And the unnatural terror it puts on people’s faces, flashing erratically, is beautiful.

 _Jack,_ comes his father’s voice, an inhuman tone that blasts through his eardrums. He’s used to it by now; the orders and the instructions. He feels pain for his mother’s death, but she’s gone—burned and buried—and Father is his only real family. Jack quickly squishes the seed of concern for Castiel. He has no affiliation with the angel, and Castiel’s dead too, anyways.

 _Jack, bring me Winchesters. Alive._ Lucifer’s voice rings commandingly in his ears. _I want to rip them apart, taste their insides._ There’s a pause, and then, more derisively, _And get me out of this hellhole._

“I will, Father,” Jack responds confidently, voice rough with disuse. His eyes flash gold momentarily before blinking back to their original color.

 _Good boy,_ Lucifer croons softly.

“Don’t worry,” Jack says, low and menacing, a dangerous smile curving his lips. _They_ deserve what’s coming for them. His mother didn’t. “I’ll be waiting for them.”

And then he’s gone, only a sizzling scorch mark left to show he was ever there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dUN-  
> i think Jack is going to be a really cool character; there's more to him than just being Lucifer's kid, but right now he's a problem.
> 
> and Sam, i think, really needed this breakdown. both brothers need to reconcile and gather themselves- which will happen at Jody's! (i love Jody)
> 
> thanks for reading!! :)  
> (feedback is always appreciated)


	6. Chapter 6

“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it.”

They’re just outside Sioux Falls and Dean thinks now is as good a time as any to try and talk to Sam. Because there’s no way he’s pretending that—even while he’s getting better about it—it doesn’t hurt to think about Cas.

“Nope,” Sam answers, his face blank. Full shutdown mode.

Dean takes a breath. “C’mon man, you’re the one who’s all about the touchy feely crap.”

“I’m fine, Dean.” Sam replies shortly.

“Alright then,” Dean mutters under his breath, eyes trained on the road.

“You think Jody and Claire are okay?” Sam asks after a moment.

“Yeah, they’re fine.” Dean says, nodding. “Kicked _our_ asses more than once. They can handle anything.”

“Mmm,” Sam agrees, fingers restlessly tapping his leg.

“We’re going to have to tell them sometime. Claire deserves to know,” Dean says into the silence, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Yeah,” Sam’s voice trails off and he tips his head against the window. “Later, okay?” Dean inclines his head grudgingly, and they fall into silence, watching the storm as Dean navigates the streets of Sioux Falls. The quiet feels disturbing, the supernatural presence a damper on the mood.

Dean pulls into the sheriff’s driveway. Jody, of course, is ecstatic to see them. Dean’s looking forward to some awesome home-cooked meals for the next couple of days, and good company.

“Couldn’t wait till next Christmas?” She jokes when they knock on the door. Dean immediately finds himself in a hug that he slowly and cautiously returns, which gets him a cuff on the head and another squeeze.

“Not made of glass. Go on in—Claire’s got dinner on the table.” Dean nods and smiles, real genuine, as Jody moves past him to hug Sam, who’s hunched in the doorway.

He looks back at them as he walks inside, and notices how easily Sam softens, boneless in Jody’s embrace. Watching them, Mary’s words to the sheriff from earlier spring unbidden to his mind; _You want to play mother to my son? Go ahead._ It’s not quite a lie; Dean knows Jody feels strongly maternal towards him and Sam. She’s got her own life, and isn’t their mother, but at the end of the day it’s nice to know that there’s still someone _there._

Because with the life they lead, that’s never a guarantee.

He shakes out of his funk and continues towards the kitchen as Sam and Jody come up behind him. Jody claps her hands, heralding an announcement.

“Alright boys, move it, we have salad and chicken… and _maybe_ ice cream if there’s any left in the freezer.”

“Ice cream?” Dean perks up, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Dinner first,” comes the response, teasingly stoic.

Something warm bubbles up inside of Dean when Sam smiles next to him. Jody always brings out the best in them, and he’s prepared to kick back and relax for the rest of the evening.

____________

 

“This is _good._ ” Sam tries not to wince at his brother’s lack of manners as he digs into his own food, even though he secretly agrees with Dean’s sentiments. The mood is light, and with good food in his stomach and his friends and family surrounding him, Sam feels at ease, the grief lifted from his shoulders a little. This scene—right here—feels almost normal.

“When did you last eat?” Jody asks, Claire watching in grotesque fascination as Dean attacks his chicken.

“Uh,” Sam thinks aloud, trying to remember the last time they had a full meal. Neither one of them have been eating very much lately.

“Don’t know,” Dean interrupts, still chomping away. “Don’t care. Jody, this is _amazing._ ”

She smiles, tipping an eyebrow at him. “Glad you appreciate my cooking.”

“Hell yeah,” Dean murmurs. A quiet of forks clinking and glasses plunking ensues.

“You’re here on a case, right?” Claire bursts out, leaning forward after the silence has endured for more than what’s comfortable. “This lightning thing is pretty suspicious.” She glances over at Jody, who’s sitting back with her arms crossed, evidently disapproving of Claire’s enthusiasm but nonetheless expectant for their answer.

Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks at Sam.

His brother shrugs, and Sam reads the expression on his face as clearly as if he said the words aloud. _Why not? Now or never._ Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean, prompting him to speak. _Go ahead._

“Well,” Dean sets his fork down, and rests his elbows on the table. “We’re here because, one, we missed you ladies, and two… Lucifer’s kid popped out and decided to pay himself a visit to our very own Sioux Falls.” Dean nods seriously at them, face full of food. “Sightseein’”

Sam’s tries to intervene, regretting his decision to let his brother talk. “Dean—”

“Lucifer’s _kid?_ ” Jody’s eyebrows are inching up to her hairline.

“You know,” Dean interjects unhelpfully, tipping an eyebrow at the sheriff, “when a man and a woman get together and do the—”

“Stop,” says Jody breathlessly, holding up a hand and closing her eyes briefly. “Just, wait a second. You’re telling me that _Lucifer_ … the honest to God _Devil_ , has a _child?_ ”

“Well, it’s not so much of a child as a teenager, with it’s crazy hormonal growth spurts.” Dean says unconcernedly, ignorant of the way Jody’s voice is increasing dangerously in pitch. Sam’s about ready to kill his brother as he frantically tries to find a way to diffuse the situation. “I hope he gets pimples,” Dean adds as an afterthought.

“Okay.” Sam spreads his hands, “Dean, just, hold on a second, okay?” He turns his attention to Jody.

“Kelly Kline and… Lucifer, um, got together and Kelly got pregnant—”

“Claire,” Jody interrupts, raising an eyebrow, “Protection. Always.” _Teaching moment,_ she mouths at them, a murderous looking Claire glowering behind her. Sam clears his throat over the awkward silence and continues.

“Right, well, she just had the baby—Jack—a little over a week ago. But he’s powerful—a Nephilim. Half human, half angel. We don’t know what he’s doing, or what his intentions are, but we’re not taking any chances.”

“Damn right we’re not,” Dean says, playing with the tablecloth. “It’s Lucifer’s spawn.”

“How do we kill it?” Claire speaks up, eyes bright.

“Oh, _no._ There is no ‘we.’ You, young lady,” Jody levels with Claire, stabbing a finger in her direction, “are not in any way a part of this.”

Claire immediately starts to protest, and Sam purses his lips uncomfortably. Claire was a qualified hunter in her own right, but this was bigger than all of them. Neither Jody or Claire needed to be involved.

“Dean and I will take care of it,” he tells Jody, and is immediately greeted with a disbelieving glare.

“Shut it,” she replies. Sam does. “Claire, room. Now. The grownups are going to _talk_ for a bit.” Sam winces. This is not going to go down well with anyone.

“I’m legally an adult,” Claire announces stubbornly.

“And mentally a child,” Jody mutters, getting up and going to grab Claire’s arm. She nods at Dean and he goes around to the other side of the table to lead her upstairs. Apparently his brother has some decency—enough to leave Claire out of this mess.

When the blond hair turns a corner and Claire’s protests fades to a tinny whisper, Jody walks over to the armchair and sits down heavily. Sam follows reluctantly, perching on the edge of a chair.

“What the hell did you boys get yourselves into?” Jody asks grimly.

“Well…” Sam stalls, biting his lip.

“We told you—” Dean says, walking back into the room and settling into a chair.

“Lucifer’s kid, yeah,” Jody finishes for him, shaking her head. “God, just hearing that come out of my mouth sounds wrong.”

“So, uh, Jody,” Sam starts hesitantly, “can we crash here for a couple days?”

Jody turns on him at that. “No, Sam,” she replies sarcastically. “I’m going to kick you out into a supernatural lightning storm.”

“Well, thanks.” Dean replies for him, half smiling, eyebrows raised.

“One of you can take Alex’s bed—she’s still at school for a couple weeks, and then there’s the couch.”

“Couch,” Dean says immediately, before Sam can even take a breath. He shoots his brother a look, and then nods gratefully at Jody.

“We can cook sometime, if you want,” he offers. Jody chuckles at that.

“I can heat up frozen microwave dinner just fine, thanks, but I’ll make sure to put you guys to work.” She replies, and Sam smiles down at his lap.

“Hey, I can cook!” Dean objects indignantly. “I make some mean pancakes. Right Sam?” Sam thinks back to Dean’s cooking phase—complete with slightly misshapen, lightly browned pancakes.

“They weren’t terrible,” he remarks offhandedly.

Jody laughs. “Alright, Iron Chef,” she says, “make me breakfast tomorrow.”

Dean tosses her a friendly grimace. “No can do, I’m afraid. Tomorrow we’re gonna go visit a baby—er, teenager.”

“Right. So, what do we need? I’ve got guns, knives, M&M’s?”

“Ooh,” Dean grins, stabbing a finger at her, “right on.”

Sam pulls his computer out and opens it up. Even with all the light conversation they’re having, he can still feel death and destruction hovering just outside their door. Jody’s home is simply the umbrella they’re stepped under in the middle of the storm. Fingers flying over the keyboard, he pulls up a map of Sioux Falls and turns the device to face Jody.

“All these points,” Sam points to the red circles dotting the screen, “are where there have been lightning strikes. They’re everywhere—except…” Sam taps a couple keys and zooms in, “this old auto shop in the middle of some woods.”

“Ground zero,” Dean announces grimly.

“Alright,” Jody says gamely, nodding.

“Um, Jody,” Sam starts hesitantly, chancing a glance at Dean, “maybe… you should sit this one out. Dean and I can handle it.”

“Boys, I appreciate the concern, but—” Jody starts, but Dean, who has finally decided to act like an adult and take control of the conversation, chimes in.

“What Sam means is you’re not going.” Dean levels with her seriously. “This is our crap, and we’re going to deal with it. Lucifer’s freakin’ _kid_ is not something to mess around with, and nothing you or Claire need to be involved in.”

“You can definitely help,” Sam says quickly, when Jody looks a little chastised, “but… we got this one.” He looks at her, and when she stares back at him, Sam’s a little surprised to see the frustration and worry in her eyes.

“You better, Winchester,” Jody threatens.

Dean’s grin is sloped lazily across his face as he mock salutes her. “Always, Sheriff.”

Sam quirks a smile as she strides out of the room. “Goodnight, Jody.”

____________

 

“‘Course the couch is in the girls’ room,” Dean grumbles.

He hears Sam stifle a huff of amusement, and immediately retaliates. “Hey, I’m not the one sleeping with stuffed unicorns over there.”

“You’re just lucky that thing’s a foldout, otherwise you’d be on the floor,” Sam says. Dean offers a noncommittal noise in response, and turns over in the silence.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam asks quietly.

“Yeah?” he replies. In the dark of the room, it almost feels like a teenage sleepover, like every statement has magnitude.

“Where do angels go when they… pass?”

“I don’t know, Sammy. On?”

Sam shifts, his voice low. “Where do you think Cas is?”

Except for their quiet breathing, a hush falls over the room. Dean doesn’t want to think about the fact that Cas may be lost to them forever, his light winked out like a dying star. _The Empty_ , Billie had said. _Somewhere lost to everywhere and everything._

“—Dean?”

“He’s here,” Dean says. “Right here with us.” He thumps a hand over his heart.

“It still hurts,” Sam admits from across the room, and when Dean looks over at his brother, he sees Sam’s eyes are open, tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling. A dulled, familiar pain constricts his chest.

“Too much,” Dean agrees.

“Claire’s gotta know,” Sam says, and Dean can hear the pained reluctance in his voice.

“Yeah,” he replies shortly.

“You want me to…?” Sam asks, turning his head sideways so he can see Dean. The crease between his brother’s eyes seems like a permanent installment now.

“Nah, I’ll do it. After we gank the walking bomb.”

He feel more than sees Sam nod. Dean continues, “Tomorrow, we’re going to go find that thing—and we’re going to kick it in the ass. For Castiel.”

“For Cas,” Sam echoes softly.

Dean closes his eyes, the angel’s name scrawled across the inside of his eyelids. _Cas, Cas, Cas._ But this time, there’s no flashes of light or silver blades. Tonight, all he sees is a brilliant blue, the hint of a suppressed smile, and a desperate love.

Tonight, when he dreams, he sees Cas.

____________

 

The next morning, when Jody comes to check on them, she finds empty beds, wrinkled covers, and a note scrawled in messy handwriting that reads _Raincheck for the pancakes? Back soon._

(Her eyes shine when she smiles down at the paper)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eh?? i don't know how well i did on characterization, but it was nice to write something a little lighter.  
> and the floof at the end is just 'cause :)
> 
> hope you enjoyed!  
> comments always welcome
> 
>  
> 
> (side note: unfortunately, Cas is dead right now... but this Nephlim will certainly make things interesting)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait (oops life)  
> (this chapter has violence? and language? but nothing explicit, and nothing worse than the show itself)  
> enjoy :)

 

“You ready?” Dean asks as they stroll over to the car, Jody’s house silent and still behind them. There’s an odd sense of detached quiet that permeates the atmosphere—just the barest tingle of energy rippling somewhere in Dean’s chest.

“Can this thing even die?” Sam responds skeptically, slipping into passenger side.

“Yeah,” Dean hedges, pulling his door shut and turning the ignition. “Bullets or blade, it’s going down somehow.”

He guns the engine and they pull out of Jody’s driveway, shadows flickering across their faces in the early morning light. The air bites pleasantly as they drive, windows down, the city around them awash in dulled pastel. There’s a tense energy in the air, and Dean relishes it, drawing himself together for the hunt.

Sam yawns. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Stock up on weapons and head in—guns blazing.”

“What if Jack’s not dangerous?” Sam tips his head towards Dean, eyebrows scrunched up.

“He is the _son_ of _Lucifer_ —”

“—Yeah, but he’s also the son of Kelly,” his brother retorts. Dean’s gaze is fixated on the road when he speaks again, a flare of irritation stitched into his words.

“Okay Sam, say you’re right, and the kid isn’t evil. Where do we go from there?”

“We set some traps, with holy oil and sigils, and go in prepared. We give him a chance.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” Dean challenges. There’s a reason they’re chasing Jack down—and it’s not just for the good people of Sioux Falls. This is a personal vendetta.

“Guns blazing,” Sam answers, matter of fact, and Dean nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Sam repeats wryly, settling into his seat.

Dean steps on the gas.

____________

 

Dean looks around cautiously, taking in the surroundings. His and Sam’s feet crunch gently in the gravel, a backdrop to the sound of two doors slamming closed.

The place is dusty and abandoned—wheels and engines and frames littering the ground. The rain from last night has let up, but spotty cloud cover remains, and every so often a blast of electricity will slam down into the earth from somewhere in the heavens, ozone pooling in the air. It’s unnerving.

“Alright,” Dean says in a low tone, after scanning the area. “We’re clear.”

Sam pops the trunk, and Dean walks over to join him. They look down at their array of weapons, most of which the grips are worn into their hands, and breathe in the familiar stink of oil and dust floating up. _Ah, memories_ , Dean thinks, only half sarcastically. They’ve come far.

“Let’s do this,” Sam says simply.

“Yep,” Dean agrees.

A couple minutes later, they’re ready to go, with the Impala parked and sheltered behind a large oak. Dean pats his baby.

“Wish us luck, sweetheart,” he says, mostly just to hear Sam’s soft snort.

“C’mon,” his brother says, and they start to creep along the rows of junk, laying down circles of holy oil and painting hidden sigils, silent shadows against the still scene. They’re both armed with an angel blade, holy oil and a lighter, guns, knives, and frankly—whatever else Dean has in the trunk. This thing’s gotta die somehow.

“Dean,” Sam hisses a few rows down, and Dean’s on the move, creeping up behind his brother, gun raised. Sam gestures at the ground, where a set of bare footprints lays in the dirt.

Sam bends, examining it. “Fresh,” he remarks in a low voice.

Dean’s mouth tightens. He moves in front of Sam, silently making his way down the row, his brother rising behind him. Eyes narrowed in concentration, they follow the footsteps to the edge of the scrapyard. There, the prints disappear into thin air, the edge of the grounds bordered by a thick forest.

Lowering his weapons, Dean looks around, eyes glinting with anger. “Damn,” he says quietly. The adrenaline in his system feels good, and he wants to punch something—feel the taste of blood.

Sam exhales. “Where—”

“Don’t know,” Dean answers curtly.

There’s silence as they look around, sharp eyes scouring the area.

“Wait,” Sam says suddenly, staring intently up at the trees. “I think…”

He trails off, and Dean follows his gaze just in time to see a shadow flicker above a branch. Raising his gun, Dean shoots.

One pained squawk and flurry of red stained feathers later, a bird tumbles to the ground. Dean stares at it uncomprehendingly.

“ _Show yourself,_ you bastard!” He growls menacingly at the trees. Sam starts next to him.

“That’s not very nice,” A new voice remarks from behind them. Dean whirls around. _Jack._

The Nephilim is perched atop a stack of wheels, peering curiously down at them. He’s young—loose t-shirt over lean muscle and brown hair tangled with dirt and leaves. _Gold eyes_ , Dean adds in his head. _This thing isn’t human._ He hefts his gun at Jack dangerously, hyperfocused and buzzing with quiet energy.

“I _will_ shoot you, no matter how old you are,” he threatens.

“A month and three days,” Jack supplies promptly, tilting his head in mock curiosity.

“Awesome,” Dean mutters.

“What are you doing here, Jack?” Sam asks cautiously.

“My job,” the Nephilim replies casually.

“You—” Sam says, taken aback. “What _job?_ ”

“You two,” Jack hops down lithely from his tower and stands before them, “are something of a nuisance to my father.”

“Lucifer?” Dean snarks back, the uneasy mood suddenly blackening. _Great, they’re on the Devil’s wanted list._ “Hate to break it to you kid, but your Dad’s not in a real good place right now.”

“No,” Jack agrees, stepping closer, his expression darkening. For the first time, Dean feels a spark of fear somewhere deep inside as he sees the potent anger the teenager’s face. “He’s trapped. And Mother is _dead,_ because of you.” He glares at them, the words foul in his mouth. “Sam and Dean _Winchester_.”

“Look, Jack, we can—” Sam starts, his face lined with grave seriousness, hands raised placatingly.

“Stop,” Jack intones, and Sam’s voice abruptly cuts off. Lightning flashes around them as the Nephilim’s ire flares. “You have no idea—I _felt_ her die. I _watched_ her soul fade away.”

“Well, boo hoo, welcome to Earth,” Dean retorts.

“I know you think I am like my father,” Jack replies cooly, and Dean stifles a snort, “but I am not. His methods are… not to my liking. However, this is the only way I have to avenge my mother.”

“Yeah,” Dean speaks up, ignoring the shoot of pain through his chest, “and what about Cas? The angel who took care of you and protected your mother for _months._ The angel _your father_ killed. What about him?”

“Castiel,” the Nephilim muses thoughtfully. “I did feel sad, at first. But he is gone now. Lucifer is with me.”

“Cas died _protecting_ you!” Sam replies indignantly.

“And yet here you are, his friends, ready and waiting to kill me.”

Jack kicks away the tarp that hides their circles of holy oil and Dean purses his lips. “I tire of this dance,” the Nephilim says, reaching calmly inside his jacket to pull out an angel blade.

“Me and you both, buddy,” Dean replies.

“Well then,” Sam says grimly, “let’s get this party started.”

Dean’s trigger-happy finger slips. Twice.

“Ow.”

“—Damn,” Dean mutters. Other than two rips in Jack’s shirt, he’s unscathed—just pissed off.

Jack surges forward with surprising grace to jab at Sam, who blocks. Spinning behind the teenager, Sam lands a punch to Jack’s stomach before dodging out of the way of the silvery blade. Fingers grasping for a weapon, Dean allows himself a small grin. _That’s my boy._

He digs in his jacket— _why are there so many pockets?_ —for a bottle of holy oil and a lighter, the soundtrack of grunts and gasps in the background harrying his movements. When he glances up again, oil and lighter in hand, Sam’s got a cut on his cheek, blood trickling down his face, and Jack’s sporting some new fashionable rips in his clothing.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Dean says urgently, flicking the lighter spastically over the holy oil in the bottle. Finally, the thing lights, and in the spirit of Cas, Dean yells.

“Hey! Assbutt!”

The glass breaks over Jack’s shoulder, thousands of invisible shards tearing at his clothes, and wet splotch of holy oil lies damp on his chest. But the thing that draws Dean’s attention is the fire. The flame _should_ have been engulfing Jack is hovering over his hand— flaring with every flex of his fingers.

“Interesting,” Jack remarks.

“You’re a freaking lunatic,” Dean mutters, unbelieving. No _way_ does this kid get fire powers. But even before his eyes, the glow of the flame sinks into Jack’s hand until his palm is radiating, red-hot.

Jack looks triumphantly at Dean, eyes a murky gold and a devilish grin gnawing at his features. “So long, Winchester,” he says, low and gravelly, and the pit of fear in Dean’s stomach expands.

He can only watch as Jack turns to Sam, who’s standing—shocked and disoriented— only a few feet away. The Nephilim pulls him around, placing his glowing hand on his little brother’s shoulder. Jack’s knuckles burn white as he digs his fingers into Sam’s skin.

Sam _screams._

And that’s Dean’s breaking point.

He rushes Jack, screaming madly, the edges of the scrapyard blurring in a haze of anger. The blade in his hand is sharp and lethal, glinting dangerously to match the glare in Dean’s own eyes. “You _motherfu_ —”

Then, blindly, there’s the scrape of flesh against flesh, the hard knock of bone, a dull tear of skin and the wetness of blood. Dean’s world spins for a moment as his eyes refocus, lightning crackling around them. He feels Jack knock away the angel blade that’s clutched loosely in his hand as easily as if it was a toothpick, and then a hand tightens around Dean’s wrist in an iron grip.

“Lucky for you, he wants you alive,” Jack rasps in his ear, teeth stained red in a bloody grin, and Dean’s heart rate spikes. He looks at Sam, writhing in the Nephilim’s grip and shudders slightly. _Not Lucifer…_

But before Dean can whisper _I’m sorry_ to Sam, Jack explodes.

Or at least, Dean’s eyes have combusted into a million fireworks, because all he can see is flame. He barely registers the release of the grip on his arm that he know will probably leave bruises, or the movement to his left that’s Sam tumbling to the ground.

Dean’s eyes are drawn to Jack. The Nephilim is hung in the air, suspended above them with his arms raised in production, cracks of orange light arcing across his chest and spilling out of him.

“He’s ope—” Sam coughs wetly from beside him, raising a shaking finger. “—opening a portal.”

And _damn_ , Sam’s right. Behind Jack, there’s a tear slicing open, blinding energy crackling around it. It’s windy all of a sudden, the portal drawing everything towards it, and the violent gales send shivers down Dean’s back. When he looks closer, he can see formless shapes twisting out of the empty space beyond the tear and escaping into Earth.

 _“NO!”_ Dean yells in futile frustration, and Jack opens his eyes, staring down at him. The decaying skin and glint of gold is terrifying as Jack whispers triumphantly, _“Yes.”_

A small blast rings out around the Nephilim and he falls, collapsing backwards into the dust, chest still glimmering. The tear begins to spasm, and the electrical storm above them burns with energy. Jack’s last words linger in the air, and Dean feels unreasonable tears sting behind his eyes. He doesn’t even know where to start to this time.

“Dean,” Sam croaks, and finally there’s something Dean can do. He fumbles his way over to Sam, gathering his brother in his arms, careful of the burn and _God,_ melted skin on Sam’s back.

“It’s okay, Sammy, you’re alright, I promise,” he rambles, raking back Sam’s hair, hands resting protectively over him, small reassurances of touch.

“I know,” Sam says simply, staring up at him. There’s a half smile creasing his scraped face when he speaks again, locking eyes with Dean.

“Dean… I saw _Cas._ ”

Dean can’t speak.

As they sit huddled together, Dean’s heart torn with hope and despair, Jack breathes out for the last time. Dean’s ears are deafened as he watches the portal collapse in upon itself, and then his vision gives out too, red licks of flame tearing at his eyelids before darkness finally takes over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not very practiced with action scenes, so i hope i did this justice. anyways. epilogue next (including our favorite angel) and season 13 in a week!! (yes yes yes yes yes)
> 
> thanks for reading! (drop me a comment if you've got time?)  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god, here we go  
> (i think there's one expletive in here)   
> enjoy :)

 

It’s dark, at first.

And then—suddenly—it’s bright.

Which is strange, because Cas didn’t think the Empty could ever be bright. Just cold and dark and blank, like nothingness.

He peers at the brightness. _It’s more of a tear_ , he observes. _A rip in the fabric of this place._ Around him, Cas vaguely senses the rush of other beings flying out of the Empty, whooshes of light that break the speed limit—iciness and desolation leaking out in the rush of urgency.

His scattered grace processes this slowly, but eventually a human curiosity overcomes him, and he looks closer between the threads of orange light. His whole body is fuzzy and unformed, but as his dull senses sharpen slightly, he can see figures moving through the hazy tear. Familiar figures, too tall and hunched together.

_“NO!”_

A tinny sound shakes his ears, and suddenly—joltingly—Cas _knows_. That voice… those people beyond the rift are Sam and Dean. Out there is _Earth._

And then he’s gone, rushing with the rest of them—whoever they are,—scattered particles in a stream of need. _Dean. Sam. Dean. Sam._ The orange light is flashing dangerously now, the opening zipping closed. Cas flings himself forwards, tumbling over and under until he falls through, back to Earth.

And immediately, there’s so _much_. Ozone crackling in the air, the smell of burned flesh and blood, the rough texture of dirt, the wash of air, the many colors he’d forgotten.

And his family.

Cas gets a glimpse of them, and Sam’s eyes—wide with pain and shock and hope—meet his for a split second before he’s pulled away. Away over the miles to an oddly familiar forest where he descends past the layers of Earth into a old skin.

He breathes again, and stands. He’s _out_ somehow, here on Earth and there’s somewhere he needs to be.

____________

 

When her phone rings, Claire is surprised to find Castiel’s rough voice on the other end, but she tells him what he needs to know.

 _Sam and Dean came back for dinner—they were filthy—passed out, and then headed back to Kansas, to their so called bunker, this morning,_ she recounts. Apparently their phones aren’t working and Castiel is quietly freaking out somewhere in America. She can hear his uneven breathing over the phone when he thanks her.

 _Call me sometime, okay?_ Claire asks suddenly, in a rush.

Cas promises.

____________

 

Dean’s hands move gently over his back, the touch of his rough calloused fingers tenderly piecing Sam’s broken skin back together. Sam winces as a hot pain strikes through him and tries not to shake with it, but Dean notices, as always.

“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs. Sam can practically feel Dean’s distress, his brother’s hands hovering, and he doesn’t blame him. Sam’s still got red eyes and lingering tear tracks dried down his face, and he’s been wearing blankets instead of clothes these last couple of days as his burned and charred skin has given way to a nasty scar.

Sam’s got plenty of scars, but this one—this palm imprinted permanently on his shoulder—is so violating because it’s so similar to Dean’s. His brother’s shoulder, however, is marked with a handprint of love, not a handprint of hate. He guesses it’s just the way things are—he’s boy with the demon blood, Lucifer’s vessel, and recipient of all the fun stuff that comes with that kind of reputation.

“Y’all right?” Dean asks quietly, wrapping Sam’s shoulder in a firm bandage.

“Sure,” Sam answers. “You?”

“Yep.”

Sam sighs into the silence.

“Your shoulder’s looking better,” Dean offers.

“Is it?” Sam asks, half bitterly. He stares at the reflection of his brother in the bathroom mirror.

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“Did it hurt?” Sam asks suddenly into the silence.

“What?” Dean’s warm hand on his good shoulder shifts.

“When Cas pulled you out of Hell,” Sam clarifies.

“Sam… ” Dean tries, twisting uncomfortably, but Sam continues, albeit without heat.

“It felt like Jack was trying to drag me down. Like something always is.”

“Jack’s dead,” Dean replies reassuringly. “Burned out, remember?”

“His birth opened a portal, so theoretically, his death would reopen it.” Sam turns, ignoring the pull on his freshly stitched skin to look at Dean. “Jack tried to reopen that portal with his death, but instead, he opened another portal. To the Empty.”

His words hang in the air long enough to tell him that Dean knows he’s not talking about Jack anymore.

“He’s dead, Sam,” Dean replies resignedly.

“Dean…”

“I can’t deal with this off and on wishful thinking crap you’re feeding me, okay? Why can’t you just accept that he’s gone?” Dean retorts, bitter.

“I saw him,” Sam replies simply. “I saw Cas.”

Dean just stares at him, and Sam stares back stubbornly. They stay that way until a shiver runs down Sam’s bare back, and Dean looks away, shaking his head minutely. He comes up a moment later to tuck a blanket over Sam’s shoulders. Sam closes his eyes, angry at the burn behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says lowly, apologetic.

“Come on,” his brother says, and gentle hands pick Sam up from the toilet seat and lead him back to Dean’s room. The lights are low, so that only the burnt brown color echoes off the walls, and the simplicity is comforting. They settle into bed together, side by side.

Sam turns on his side, careful of his shoulder, and feels the mattress dip as Dean slides in next to him. His brother’s hip ends up next to his face, and Sam nudges his nose into the space there as if he was still a little kid and feels Dean’s hand settle on his head. Sam’s eyelids slip shut easily and he fades into a quiet rest, the single sound of breathing filling the room. They both need this.

After a time, Dean shifts. Sam’s eyes flutter open at the movement, his body leaden with exhaustion.

“Did you—” Dean says, his body rumbling as he speaks with a tinge of hesitant hope. “Did you really see him?”

“Yeah,” Sam responds, his voice a bit muffled.

“What’d he look like?”

It’s a vulnerable thing, and Sam thinks drowsily on it. “Grace,” he says, recalling the luminescent shape against the starry sky, “and color. Like a firework, but brighter. And warm, like the sun. Sort of windy, clean and free and unrestrained energy.” Sam can almost hold onto that feeling now. He closes his eyes. “I don’t know, Dean, but it was beautiful.”

Dean hums in response and Sam feels himself start to drift. His grip on the covers goes lax and he sags into the pillows.

“Pancakes tomorrow?” He asks tiredly.

“Sure, man.”

“We should send s’me to Jody,” Sam remarks, words slurred with sleep, and feels the bed shake as Dean laughs a little.

“You got it.”

“G’night,” he mumbles. He barely hears Dean’s fond _“Goodnight, Sammy”_ before he slips off into the abyss, the memory of grace trickling through his dreams.

____________

 

Dean’s asleep when he hears the knock.

It’s a pounding, rapid and desperate at the door and Dean swipes a hand across his eyes, listening closely. Sam is asleep next to him, chest expanding with each breath, so Dean extracts himself carefully from the bed, making sure not to disturb his brother.

He pads down the hall and into the library, squinting up at the door. Who is even at the door at—Dean checks his watch—four thirty in the morning? He goes up the stairs cautiously and stalls at the door, hands hovering over the locks.

Dean shakes his head, and then with sudden decisiveness undoes the bolts. Metal scrapes and clicks, and then the heavy, fortified door swing open.

A familiar looking angel stands there.

“Fuck,” Dean exhales. His mind whirs blankly.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says.

A chill of goosebumps runs down Dean’s back and he blinks to clear his head. Cas’s clothes are dirt-stained and rumpled, and he smells of wind and gas oil. His face is crinkled with a familiar map of lines.

“Are you really here?” Dean asks, low and gravelly. _Are you real?_ The angel looks him in the eye seriously, his eyebrows drawn with resolution.

“Yes,” Cas utters firmly. That syllable hangs between them for mere moments before Dean steps forward and buries himself in Cas’s chest, needing the validation of touch, flesh on flesh.

He’s warm and moving and breathing and _alive_ and Dean lets the sting of tears fall onto Cas’s shoulder, half laughing with relieved need. His hand bunches in the fabric on the angel’s back and they stand there together, the world spinning as Dean relishes Cas’s light breaths on his neck.

When Dean finally steps back, he claps Cas on the shoulder and smiles through the mist in his eyes. “I missed you, man.”

“I also found my experience quite… unsatisfactory without your presence,” Cas replies, and Dean laughs, because it’s just so _Cas._

“You alright?” Dean asks. They start to descend the stairs to the library, Dean’s hand brushing the small of his back. “We’ve got coffee—and tea, I think, because Sam’s a freak about it—”

“Dean?” Sam’s voice echoes from the hallway, and the nervous beat of Dean’s heart skips.

“Sam,” Cas breathes beside him.

Dean yells to his brother, snapping back to the present, earnest life coloring his words, “Hey jerkface, get your butt in here!”

Sam stumbles into the library, trailing a blanket over his shoulders. “Dean, I don’t know what time it is, but it’s _early._ Why're you up…” He trails off, eyes flickering from Dean’s wild grin to the figure beside him.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice breaks.

Cas nods.

Sam’s shock melts into something brilliant and heartbreaking and young as he goes to Cas and sweeps the angel into a hug. Cas puts his arms around Sam as Sam closes his eyes, face burrowed in his shoulder, trembling slightly. They stay there for a moment, enclosed in each other’s arms, until Cas draws away in shock, searching Sam’s face.

“Sam, you’re injured,” he says urgently, and moves around to Sam’s back, pushing aside the blanket and staring in horror at the mess of burned flesh and bruises on Sam’s bare shoulder.

“He’ll be okay, Cas,” Dean interjects, taking the blanket from the angel. “We’ll all be okay.”

“No,” Cas shakes his head. “I can fix this.” He lifts his hand, but instead of putting two fingers to Sam’s forehead, he lays his palm against the wound. Sam shudders and Dean moves closer warningly.

“Cas…”

White light spills out from his palm and onto Sam’s shoulder, glowing with blazing intensity, both the angel’s and his brother’s faces contorted in discomfort. Dean hovers between them, wanting to help somehow, but as soon as the light fades and Cas removes his hand, they both sag, settling back.

Sam cranes his neck around, peering anxiously at his back. Dean looks too, and is half amazed to see that the skin there is smooth, only the white scar of Castiel’s hand a reminder of the injury.

“It’s gone, Sammy,” Dean says quietly. _You’re okay. Cas is okay._

_And, for the first time in a long time, I think I am too._

Sam turns to Cas, eyes shining. “Thank you.”

“I will always care for you,” Cas returns. “Both of you.”

Dean’s heart shivers, and Sam smiles quietly. “We love you too, Cas.”

“Welcome home, buddy,” Dean says, and he drapes the blanket around Cas’s shoulders, marvelling at the warmth their tiny family has.

“Welcome home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it! this was a journey for me (first fic!) and i'm pretty happy with how it turned out, but feel free to let me know how i did
> 
> season 13 in a couple hours (i'm cutting this close) and i'm so so so hyped (man i'm bouncing up and down right now)
> 
> and always always thanks for reading!! - (i'm still a little amazed that my words are out there on other people's screens) <3


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